Coffee Spill

The first cup of blissful aroma
roused me from my sleepy state,
Oh steamy hot, sex god — coffee —
black and languidly playful on my palate.

The second was ecstasy poured…
right to the thirsty cavity of my cup;
Pulses racing to sweet corruption,
how high can we go but up!

The third and last is of the bitterest bean,
born of Adam and Eve’s subversive seed;
Numbing the flesh awake to sin; when
caffeine bites stronger, as I’m read my creed.

When out of the abundance of the heart,
the mouth speaketh…
Of whose cup can we lay fault to
when the coffee spilleth?

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A Cup of Warmth

Last night, on a bus, city bound…
traveling light with a usual backpack;
feeling nauseous as anxiety creeps,
that fear of the uncharted
as I drifted past towns.

One hundred and twenty minutes after,
seven thousand two hundred in seconds,
I stepped out of the bus (a yellow bus)
while the driver grumbles in his seat
for my short-notice stop.
I was barely even there yet,
but it’s getting cold…

Light-headed, I wandered;
Aching for a cup of warm drink.

I found myself in a bakeshop,
asked the lady there if they have coffee;
need to ask twice, or was it three times?
before she finally moved, poured, stirred,
Handed the coffee, in a paper cup.

Everything seemed not right that night.
Was it the city or just me? I reflected
as I sipped, caffeine opening my senses
–bland.
The cold started to slip away, while
my mind was still grasping
where I’m headed.

The cup half empty, I started to walk.

On the street, a stranger caught my eye,
a man in deep slumber;
the asphalt for bed.
I thought ~
Why can’t I be grateful
for even the worst cup of warmth?

That night, coffee never tasted that bad.

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